


and make sure you're alright

by MintAqua



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Secret Santa 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9061939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintAqua/pseuds/MintAqua
Summary: Tucker's attempt to cheer up Wash somehow manages to get everyone involved.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltsanford](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/gifts).



> For littlefists on tumblr, as part of the RvB Secret Santa for 2016. Cross-posted to tumblr, but I don't know how hyperlinks work on AO3 so my b
> 
> EDIT: Found some continuity errors way too late because I'm a terrible human being ahaha... Incidentally, feel free to let me know if you find a mistake!

Contrary to popular belief, Agent Washington is not the only person on Blue Team who can do Feelings. In fact, Tucker likes to think of himself as a double doctorate in Love and Feelings, with dissertations in How to Fuck and How to Take Care of Your PTSD Freelancer Friends Who You’re Kinda Half In Love With. Given the opportunity, he could take care of Feelings no problem. After all, if he could make amends with the AI program who is kind of the ghost of his friend but also kind of not, he could totally handle consoling his PTSD sexual tension buddy. All he has to do is go in there, ask what’s wrong, and give him some kickass advice. Or something.

These are the things Tucker tells himself as he stands motionless, staring intensely at the makeshift plaque reading ‘AGENT WASHINGTON’ on the door. His fist hovers over the door, frozen halfway down in its descent.

He’s been standing here for a good ten minutes now, over-thinking what to say and how to say it. The problem is, he doesn’t know what’s bothering Wash--just that he is, in fact, bothered. A lot of the symptoms are clear. The most noticeable symptom is that Agent Washington, for the first time in a long time, is _quiet_. He barely says a word outside the orders he barks during training and what little pleasantries are necessary for day-to-day interactions. That much already is off-putting, but what’s even worse is how compliant he is with just about everything. Some--namely Grif--have taken advantage of this by feeding him half-baked excuses to skip training, which he usually reacts to by doubling down on their training or some other form of Washington-flavored discipline, but now he just nods curtly and dismisses them without another word. It’s gotten to the point where Kimball and Doyle have had to scare people back into the training room, which is just embarrassing for everyone involved.

There are other things, like how Wash will suddenly drift away into his own thoughts in the middle of a conversation, or how he will be missing for an hour or two only to be found wandering in weird places like empty halls and deserted parts of the city, but the most uncomfortable thing is how he doesn’t get angry anymore. Wash gets angry because he cares--thoroughly, loudly, violently. It’s the kind of anger that makes other people want to be angry, too. To _do_ something about it. Wash not being angry makes everyone unsettled.

It’s not until one of the Feds sees Tucker standing there like an idiot that he finally snaps out of it and leaves. Maybe he could use a little assistance.

#

Nobody on the entire goddamn planet of Chorus knows what’s up with Agent Washington, hut that doesn’t stop them from theorizing.

The explanations range from over-simplistic to flat-out dramatic. Some say he’s just tired, which makes no sense because Tucker knows Tired Wash and Tired Wash is prone to yelling and making everybody just as miserable as he is. Others get really weird with it, like That Time We Seriously Thought Church Was A Ghost, Boy Was That Dumb weird, and it’s only too late that Tucker realizes just how much worse this could get if Wash hears wind of all this gossip.

“He’s gonna think the whole fucking army has been talking about him behind his back,” Tucker adds, but Church just does that minute head motion that looks a lot like an eyeroll.

“Yeah, because we have. I don’t get why you guys don’t just ask him what’s up instead of whispering about it to each other. I lived in the guy’s head; trust me, you’re not gonna have much luck sorting that out yourselves.”

Tucker narrows his eyes. “You lived in there for, like, five seconds. Doesn’t mean you’re an expert.”

“Makes me more of an expert than any of you assholes.”

Tucker purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything. It’s probably true, even if he hates admitting it. Sometimes it feels like Wash knows more about Tucker than Tucker knows himself, and it’s frustrating as hell to know that it isn’t the same both ways.

Caboose raises his hand. “I’d like to make a suggestion.”

“No,” Tucker says automatically.

“I think Agent Washington is sad because Santa can’t come to Chorus this year.” Church and Tucker exchange a look. Encouraged by their speechlessness, Caboose carries on. “Yeah, we were talking about Christmas, and presents, and Private Cinnamon Roll’s plan to capture Santa, and then Agent Washington said Santa probably can’t make it to Chorus this year because if Santa came then the space pirates would crash his sleigh and take him prisoner and kill all the reindeer a--”

“Jesus,” comments Church.

“Yeah, him, too,” Caboose agrees. “So. He’s probably sad about that. That’s why I’m making his present extra fluffy this year.”

It takes a moment for Tucker to even digest the fact that Wash is apparently still capable of words at this point, even if those words are ridiculously morbid. “I mean,” Church says eventually. “He makes a good point.” At Tucker’s incredulous look: “About the presents, not the...Santa killing thing.”

“Pff. Santa wouldn’t get killed! He would be held for ransom by the pirate guy who wants a billboard TV,” Caboose inputs. “Or Private Croissant. He also wants to kidnap Santa.”

Tucker ignores him. “You think Wash is sad because he isn’t getting any Christmas presents this year? Seriously?”

“Of course not, who gives a shit? We’re in the middle of a war. I’m just saying, giving people free crap is a pretty good way to cheer them up.”

Tucker considers this. Christmas would be a good excuse to give Wash a present without it being weird. It would also admittedly be the best feeling in the fucking world to see Wash’s face light up at whatever he got him. “Okay. Fine. But don’t tell anyone. I don’t wanna end up trying to figure out Christmas presents for the whole army.”

Church shrugs. “Sure, whatever.”

#

It takes less than twelve hours for word to get out about a secret gift exchange, which then evolves into a secret-Secret Santa exchange, which then is renamed a secret Non Denominational Holiday Gift Exchange, which _then_ ends up having its own not-so-secret party. Tucker has to promise Church a huge favor so he can rig the randomization process to make Tucker Wash’s Secret Santa, a request that earns him a long, judgmental look. He’s fully aware that he’s being obvious at this point--the whole point was that a present from _anyone_ would probably cheer Wash up; it doesn’t have to be from Tucker--but what’s more concerning is how much higher the stakes are now. Before, the gift had the element of surprise. It didn’t matter what it was, just as long as Wash didn’t see it coming. Now it’s a test of how well Tucker can guess what Wash likes, which turns out to be not at all.

“Uhm… I think I remember something about kittens,” Simmons tells him about three days after the secret-Non Denominational Holiday Gift Exchange assignments.

Tucker stares. Simmons stares back. Caboose throws a tennis ball in some random direction and tells his gun to go fetch. “I call bullshit,” says Tucker.

Simmons narrows his eyes, but the effect is ruined by the sudden jolt and shriek that follows Caboose shooting something. “Tucker did it,” is the immediate response, coming at the same time Grif starts shouting about that being the third bag of chips Caboose has ruined in the past eight minutes.

Once the initial scare is over, Simmons relaxes a little and sighs. “Lopez?” he says, not even turning around.

“ _No soy limpieza_.”

Simmons waves at him halfheartedly. “Yeah, yeah, thanks. Anyway, I’m telling you the truth! I saw it in his file, right next to the bedwetting thing.”

“What else did you find in there, his top ten Disney princesses? Seriously, what do I look like, Caboose?”

“That would be very silly. We’re not even the same color,” Caboose comments, joining the conversation. “He’s green,” he whispers.

“Fuck off.”

“Look,” Simmons cuts in, “I’m just telling you what I remember. You’re the one who asked.”

Tucker sighs. He must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel if he’s asking Simmons for help. “Even if I did believe Agent Hardass was secretly an old cat lady, how the hell am I supposed to work with that? ‘Hey, Wash, I heard you like cats, so I hunted down a space leopard and skinned it for you. Merry fucking Christmas.’”

“There are space leopards?” says Caboose.

“You seriously don’t remember anything else? Like, I don’t know, childhood memories? Family? There’s gotta be some deep sentimental shit somewhere in there.”

“I want to hear more about the space leopards,” says Caboose.

Simmons gives him an odd look. “Well, yeah, but it’s not like I can remember all that. I barely even read it. What are you even trying to get him, a therapy session?”

“Yeah dude, you’re thinking way too hard about this.” Grif materializes behind Simmons and leans on him while he opens one of the bags Caboose hasn’t ruined, yet. “Just do what I do: Get something dirt cheap and tell him it symbolizes your friendship. I’ve been giving Donut rocks for his birthday for _years_.”

Tucker picks up his gun from the counter and holsters it. “Ugh, forget it. You guys are useless.”

Caboose raises his hand. “May I make a suggestion.”

“I’m not giving him a hug for Christmas.”

Caboose lowers his hand. Then he raises it again.

“I’m not giving you one, either.”

“I am out of suggestions.”

A rifle clatters onto the counter. “What are we suggesting?” asks Carolina, Church hovering curiously over her shoulder.

Grif beats Tucker to it. “Tucker wants to know all of Agent Washington’s deep, dark secrets. You know. For Christmas.”

Carolina pops her helmet off and eyes him up. “I take it you’re Wash’s Secret Santa?”

“Non Denominational Holiday Gift Exchange...guy,” Simmons corrects.

Tucker sighs. “Yeah, but all my gift ideas suck. I mean, what do you get for a guy whose main hobbies are ‘eat, sleep, train, and yell at Tucker’?”

Church snorts. “So your solution is to invade his privacy so you can psychoanalyze him and find the perfect Christmas gift? Kinda convoluted, don’t you think?”

“I hear he likes kittens,” Carolina supplies. Then: “What? You didn’t notice?”

“Hey, by the way, what the hell’s up with him lately?” Tucker decides to ask. At Carolina’s unreadable look, he adds, “I mean, he’s been kinda…”

Carolina makes a noise of agreement. “Could be stress. Could be homesickness. Could be the nightmares again.” Tucker swallows. He doesn’t know if he can come up with a gift to solve any of those things. “I’ve tried talking to him, but he insisted he can sort this out for himself. If he needs any of us, he’ll ask.”

“Oh,” Tucker says, frowning. So Carolina beat him to it, then. He remembers his fist hovering over Wash’s door, how hard it was just to make himself knock. “I mean, okay. Yeah. Sure. Cool.”

After a beat, Church coughs, prompting everyone else in the room to return to whatever they were supposed to be doing before. In a desperate attempt to act natural, Caboose throws his gun at someone’s head.

Reading Carolina’s expression--she has “I should say something Serious and Personal About Tucker’s Feelings Right Now” written all over--Tucker mirrors Church’s cough and quickly says, “So, kittens. That all you got?”

Carolina hums. “He used to like skateboarding,” she offers.

Tucker snorts. “Okay, now I _know_ you guys are fucking with me.”

#

The fun of getting Wash a Christmas present all but evaporates the more Tucker learns about him. At least half the things Carolina tells him are probably just there to mess with him, but even the things that sound halfway plausible are impossible to work with. He tries his hand at sewing, but some idiot allows Jensen and Caboose to have at the sewing machines, which they both manage to break within fifteen minutes of touching them. He tries building a skateboard, too, but every one he makes breaks instantly and he’s pretty sure Wash would think he was making fun of him, anyway. He tries drawing, writing, building, even skulking around for stray cats at one point, but none of it feels right and all of it just makes him feel more and more desperate.

It all comes to a head when they come in for training the morning before Christmas. Tucker had hoped that the prospect of getting a gift would cheer Wash up at least a little bit, but Wash had looked more distant than ever when he got his assignment, and now he looks no different. He barely even looks up when Kimball delivers Grif to the training room fifteen minutes into the session, just nods at him and sends him off to do laps with the others.

Up until this point, Wash’s weird behavior had been more a source of curiosity and concern than anything, but now it’s just infuriating. Tucker has been spending all this time worrying and plotting and pining because of him, and here he is not being affected by any of it. Not that he knows any of this; not that he has noticed anything around him at all, let alone Tucker’s overly complicated top secret plans. But maybe he _would_ notice if he gave a shit about anything, and how dare he not give a shit about any of them?

So maybe it’s out of spite, or frustration, or stress, or just flat-out pettiness that he decides to screw with him, just to get a reaction. Something, anything other than that blank stare.

He tries to trip other people up during laps, but only ends up tripping himself, which doesn’t even get him an exasperated look. Then he tries using his real sword on the targets in the obstacle course, which he knows Wash hates because he always has to replace them afterwards. That much does get him an annoyed sigh, but it’s still not enough. He makes a bunch of sexual puns out of Wash’s brief speech about hand-to-hand combat, many of which don’t even make sense, but Wash just ignores him and moves on like Tucker isn’t even there. He fumbles, jokes, and complains every chance he gets, and it all builds up little by little, but none of it ever peaks. Wash still doesn’t sound a damn thing like himself.

“Tucker,” Wash says eventually, and finally there’s some edge to it.

Tucker just continues to try drawing a dick with his bullets. “What?” he shouts over the gunshots.

“ _Tucker_ ,” Wash repeats, sighing.

“I said ‘what.’”

Washington stills him with one hand tightly gripped around his wrist. The shooting range goes dead silent. “Captain Tucker,” he says coolly, “I think that’s enough training for today. You’re dismissed.”

Somewhere in the background Grif yells something about being excused for drawing dicks on the wall, but Tucker doesn’t hear it. “Nah. I think I’m good,” he says, then fires another shot.

“I don’t think you heard me. I said you can go.”

“Yeah, and I said I’m good.” Another round of shots.

The grip on his wrist tightens. “Why are you doing this?” Wash says, lowering his voice.

Tucker shrugs. “What are you going to do about it?”

There’s a moment where he thinks he finally pushed Wash to the limit, but it’s over as quickly as it began. Wash loosens his grip and takes a deep, infuriatingly calm breath. “Look… I don’t know what this is, but...if I did something to upset you, then--”

“Are you serious?” Tucker whirls on him, forcing his wrist out of Wash’s grip. “You’re _apologizing_? You didn’t do anything! What the fuck is there to apologize for!”

Another pause. “I...don’t know what you want me to say,” Wash says, sounding genuinely confused, and somehow that pisses Tucker off even more.

“Just--fuck, I don’t know! Yell at me! Give me laps! Punch me in the face! Do _something_! Here.” Tucker spots Palomo passing through the room and shoots at his feet, causing him to yelp and scramble away.

Wash snatches Tucker’s gun from him. “Stop that!”

“Make me!”

At last, Wash’s shoulders go stiff and squared like he’s trying to make himself bigger. He takes a step forward, into Tucker’s personal space, and Tucker makes it a point not to step back. “Whatever this is, Tucker, I’m not in the mood for it.”

“Yeah, that’s the point! Your mood is fucking weird!”

“I--what? You’re not making any sense!”

“Hey, uh,” says Grif. “Not to be that guy, but I’m pretty sure our training session’s done for the day.”

Without turning to face Grif, Wash makes a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a growl. “Fine.” And then he throws his guns on the ground, causing a shot to go off and hit Caboose.

Caboose makes a pained noise and collapses onto the floor. After a long moment, he twitches. “Ow.”

#

They get a series of lectures from Kimball, Doyle, Dr. Grey, and even Sarge on gun safety. It lasts them well into lunch, at which point Grif is sighing and rubbing his stomach and Washington is visibly chafing with humiliation and resentment at being talked down to. Usually, seeing Wash all angry and annoyed is at least somewhat entertaining, but Tucker can’t find much joy in any of it. He’s pretty sure at least some of that anger is directed at him--which, of course, was the point, but now he forgets why he even wanted that in the first place.

None of this is going to make giving Wash his gift any easier, he thinks. Before, he would’ve been mildly disappointed by whatever shitty gift Tucker got him, but politely thankful all the same. Now Tucker wouldn’t be surprised if he thought Tucker was being a shitty gift-giver on purpose.

After making sure Caboose is okay and receiving one last _look_ from Kimball, Tucker makes his way over to Wash’s quarters and hesitates in front of the room, again. There’s no way around it--he has to apologize, otherwise the whole stupid Santa plot will be useless.

His hand hovers over the door again, halfway down in its descent. His shadow is dark against the pristine whiteness of the door, a looming, silent presence. His heart pounds, but he doesn’t know why. It’s just Wash. Not even Feelings for Wash, just-- _Wash_.

The door slides open. Tucker’s fist falls a bit in shock. He half expects Wash to grab his wrist and flip him over out of instinct, but Wash just blinks at him, wide-eyed. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but he doesn’t remember Wash being this _white_ , the hollowness in his cheeks more pronounced in his paleness. The rings beneath his eyes sag deeper than usual; his face is rougher and darker with stubble. His mouth hangs open just slightly, in a rare expression of shock.

His face shifts from bewilderment to embarrassment to reserved hesitance. Just like that, he’s shutting himself off again. “Was there something you needed?” Wash says.

Tucker tries to shake himself out of it, but his mind is stuck. Even now, worn out and fucked up and the most vulnerable Tucker has ever seen him, Wash still somehow manages to feel miles away from him.

“Are you…Dude, are you okay?”

He regrets the words immediately after he says them, especially when Wash winces. “I’m fine.”

“But…” Tucker frowns, eyebrows coming together. “But--”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with you, Tucker,” Wash says, though there’s no edge to it. Just exhaustion. “I just...need to be alone.”

Before Tucker can get anything else out, the door slides shut.

#

By the time the Non Denominational Party comes around, the rest of the army seems to have taken it upon themselves to cheer Wash up, even if they don’t quite succeed. The Feds keep him for a whole hour playing Never Have I Ever; the News drag him into a game of beer pong that lasts even longer; the reds get him to face off against Kimball in a game of pin the gauze on the Santa-Menorah-Kinara-Atheist; Church and Carolina put together a piggyback race that Tucker also gets roped into. Wash remains stony-faced throughout the whole thing, though he occasionally grants people polite, strained smiles. Tucker even catches his eye twitch during pin-the-gauze, which usually only happens when he’s _really_ pissed off.

Despite keeping a close eye on Wash for most of the night, Caboose manages to distract him with an impromptu wrestling match long enough for him to somehow miss Wash slipping out of the room without anybody saying anything.

“Think he left a while ago, dude,” Church says, popping up on his shoulder. “Weren’t you supposed to give him a gift or something?”

Tucker sighs. “Yeah… Guess I better get it over with.”

“Ooh, ooh, Tucker! Wait!” Caboose trips over himself on his way to shove gray and yellow mittens in his face. “Can you give this to Agent Wash? I made these for him.”

Tucker takes them from him, frowning. If he’s honest, Caboose’s gift will probably cheer him up way more than what Tucker plans to give him. Then again, at this point Grif’s rock would get better reviews, too. “Right.”

“And I deeefinitely did not forget about you...again...for the fifth year in the row…”

“Yeah. I got it. I’ll be back.”

With that, Tucker shoulders his way out of the mess hall where everyone has gathered, fully intending to head straight for Wash’s room and get it over with, but he stops right outside the door. Off in the distance, a ray of moonlight shines in through an open door, illuminating the figure standing there. Evidently, Wash hadn’t gone far.

There’s no way Wash doesn’t notice Tucker, even from this distance, but he doesn’t look at or acknowledge him in any way as he comes closer.

“It’s a nice night,” Wash comments, once he is close enough.

“Yeah. I guess.” Tucker pokes his head outside. There isn’t any snow; in fact, it’s unseasonably humid.

He feels more than sees Wash’s eyes on him. “You don’t have to keep me company,” Wash says.

Tucker hesitates. He takes interest in a random tree in the distance. “I wanted to talk to you,” he forces out.

Wash doesn’t answer for a long time. His face is carefully guarded when Tucker looks at him, and Tucker has to fight not to roll his eyes. Of course it is. “About?”

“About…” The words get stuck in his throat. He sighs. “Fuck. Why is this so goddamn hard?” The raised eyebrow Wash gives him annoys rather than encourages him, but he’ll take what he can get. “It’s you, okay? You’ve been acting weird.”

“ _I’ve_ been acting weird?”

“Yeah, I know, I was a fucking jackass today, and I’m s…” Tucker swallows. “S...sor...s-sorrrrr--”

Wash rolls his eyes, which makes Tucker’s heart swell a stupid amount. “Fine, I get it. Apology accepted. You were saying?”

Tucker sighs. “I was just...trying to get the old Wash back. I mean, it’s like nobody’s really talked to you in weeks. It’s just been all, ‘hey Agent Washington, bye Agent Washington, let me skip training for the fifth day in a row Agent Washington.’”

“Five is an exaggeration,” Wash says, though he doesn’t sound all that sure about it himself.

“And I get if you don’t wanna talk about it, because fuck if anybody at Blood Gulch ever talked about anything that wasn’t about whatever dumbass shenanigans we got up to, but…but, fuck it, we’re worried, dude.”

Wash frowns, his eyes going somewhat distant but thoughtful. “I see. I should’ve known I would come across as suspicious.”

“ _Suspicious_? Nobody’s saying you were acting _suspicious_ \--I mean, if they are, then fuck them, seriously. Ugh.” Tucker scrubs his face with the hand that isn’t holding Wash’s mittens. “Shit. I’m fucking this up already. Look, just…lean on us, sometimes, or something. We’re friends. That means we can do friend things, like rely on each other and shit. I mean, it’s not like me or Caboose or anyone else is ever gonna understand what it was like to go through all the bullshit you’ve been through, but I still… I don’t want you to go through that alone. It _hurts_ , watching you do that. This whole time, all I’ve wanted to do is be with you and help you through this.”

That last part startles a laugh out of Wash. “You don’t want to do that,” he says mildly. “Sometimes, when I get like this, it lasts for a long time.”

Tucker snorts. “Whatever. If you have to live with my bullshit, I have to live with yours.”

Wash cracks a grin, finally, even if it’s barely there. His eyes drop to his feet. “Well, I’m not comfortable with sharing the details, but...let’s just say Christmas isn’t exactly my favorite time of year. Sort of the opposite, actually. So when Caboose started talking about Christmas, it got me thinking about some...things. Things I thought I’d left behind me. Then it got me thinking about everything--the war, Project Freelancer, Chorus, you guys… I started wondering if it would always be this way, me finding a new home and losing it over and over again. Every day I’d see all these faces and think--they’re just more people for me to lose. I shouldn’t have gotten attached to so many people--an entire army, almost--but at the same time...how could I not?” He meets Tucker’s eyes, searching. “I couldn’t leave you, any of you, even if I wanted to. Somehow I didn’t realize that until recently.”

Tucker chafes with how much eye contact is being made at this proximity. He forces himself to look away and swallows. “Shit,” he remarks.

When he looks back up, Wash shrugs, uncomfortable. He resembles the Wash Tucker saw not long ago, pale and vulnerable, shoulders hunched, those tired, tired eyes. He feels a distance building up between them again and steps forward before he can think better of it. The beginnings of Wash’s counterattack are smothered down by Tucker’s embrace, loose enough that Wash can break out of it if he wants, but big and wholehearted. He waits for Wash to push him off, but instead Wash’s arms wrap around his waist to keep him there. It’s obscene, how quickly the two of them melt into the embrace after that.

“So this whole thing just made you feel even worse. The Christmas party, the gifts...” Tucker says quietly. Washington nods, albeit reluctantly. Tucker huffs. “Balls. I should’ve known this plan would suck.

Wash’s responding chuckle is soft. “You planned a Christmas party to cheer me up? Sounds like you really fucked up.”

“Hey, fuck you.” With some difficulty, Tucker removes himself from the hug and shoves Caboose’s mittens over to Wash. The mild disappointment on Wash’s face gives way to pleasant surprise. “Merry Christmas, asshole.”

Wash takes the mittens from him carefully, a small smile growing on his face. “So _you’re_ my Secret Santa. That explains a lot.”

As much as Tucker would love to know what exactly that “explains,” he doesn’t ask. “I mean, yeah, but that’s not from me. That’s from Caboose.” He’s already cringing with embarrassment as he digs around in his pocket for the gift and sticks it out to Wash. “This is from me.”

After the initial shock, Wash folds his lips in a valiant effort not to laugh. “It’s… Is that what I think it is?” he says, picking it up between his fingers and studying it in the moonlight.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s a friendship bracelet.” Tucker shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “I used to make a ton of them with my kid.”

“Cute. Did you make me a card with crayons, too?”

“Hey, if you don’t want it--”

“Back off. I’m keeping it.”

Tucker grins and tries to reach for it anyway. He misses three times and walks Wash into the doorframe, which can’t be comfortable but Wash is grinning like he doesn’t care either way. Tucker’s got a leg between Wash’s, their chests are pressed up against each other, and his hand is on Wash’s wrist, halfheartedly reaching for the bracelet. This close, Wash’s freckles are easily countable, and their noses are brushing, and, fuck, his breath is _really_ warm on Tucker’s lips.

Wash looks up briefly and frowns. “Uh...huh. Could’ve sworn there was mistletoe there.”

“Oh. Wanna pretend it’s there, anyway?”

It was supposed to be a joke, but judging by Wash’s blush, he definitely didn’t miss the hopeful note in it. His teeth graze his lower lip for a brief moment, and he smirks when he notices Tucker watching. “Sure,” he says softly.

Tucker stares. “Wait...seriously? I mean, shit, yeah, let’s do it. Uhm.” He swallows. Wash’s eyes have never been this dark, this close. “Fuck.”

#

“Oh, hey. Damn, you were gone for, like, an hour. Did you find Wash? Uh...Tucker?”

Tucker takes a moment to remove his burning face from the table and look at Church. “I am so screwed.”

**Author's Note:**

> By the way - Caboose totally lied, he made mittens for Tucker, too. Tucker didn't have any gifts for Caboose, though, so he just let Caboose have his damn Non Denominational hug.


End file.
